Th Untold History
by Arken47
Summary: This fic is about Gellert Grindlewald's life. No. This isn't that story, the one that the newspapers chopped in half and then butchered. This is the untold history of Gellert Grindlewald, from the very beginning to the very end. Includes some Grindledore.
1. A Bastard born

**AN: Might not update consistently. Please leave reviews. I don't own HP.** **Not rated M because… Well it doesn't have to be. I try to stick with T. Kind of dark though. Not for the light-hearted.**

 _This is my story. Whether you choose to read it or not is your choice alone. I cannot promise that you will find my journey enjoyable. I vividly remember that I myself did not. However, be you muggle or wizard, there are some mistakes that we all must learn from. Therefore, Reader, I implore you to continue._

 _I was never supposed to be born, according to my mother._

 _At the age of thirty-one, I was told, my mother had been raped. Her assaulter was man, a wizard, that she had only just met. There weren't many abortion methods in that time, not in the muggle world there weren't. Even in the wizarding world, the magic for such uses was still being developed. My mother was a squib, and impoverished at that, thus, she had access to neither._

 _I was born. A bastard child, with little money, and an even smaller amount of friends. My mother kept me well hidden from society for most of the years that I spent with her. I lived in the wine cellar of the small tavern that we ran. I rarely went outside, in my early years. My skin quickly grew pale, and I was gruesomely thin. I remember the wine cellar always had a specific smell to it. It bore a semblance of rat feces, fermented grapes, and mold. I am now shameful to admit that I grew accustomed to the smell; even slightly fond of it._

 _Our business was not very popular in town. Moreover, this was more due to the fact that we ourselves were not very popular in town. People cursed at our passing, and called my mother a witch. Young boys would throw stones at us from a distance, before running away. At the time, I did not understand why this was. I could not understand why I was there in the first place, exiled into the dark, rather than playing with all the other children of the town. I could not understand why gazes were averted whenever I caught people staring. Mother and I did not go out often, but when we did, I knew that the town lacked its usual verisimilitude. There were hushed whispers as we passed, and other mothers would pull their children back, as if they thought we would harm them. People will come to fear what they have little understanding of. I learned this very quickly. Perhaps that is why I eventually came to fear both myself, and my own ability, later in life._

 _There were some things I feared about myself, even then. The first time another child saw me, I was five years old, and was reading a book in a tree. When he saw me, lofted in one of the highest branches, he called out. Because I did not know how to respond, I chose not to react. This apparently aggravated the boy, however, and he started yelling. A group of boys around his age quickly allied him, running barefooted and muddy across the unkempt lawn at the back of the tavern. I felt like I should warn them about the broken glass littering the area, but when I tried, I could not find the words. They wanted me to come down, to play with them. Yet, despite their best efforts at coaxing me from my elevated haven, I would not come down. I did not want to play something if I did not know what it was. I was afraid of the unknown, just as every other being. They started chanting for me. Then they started calling me names, while chanting immoderately._

 _"Come down, Come down, Come down!" I quickly grew aggravated. One of the youngest boys, a toddler, started to throw pebbles at me. None of them reached me, my being so elevated in the branches, and his young range being so small… It stung, all the same. I felt the small resentful tears come to my eyes, as I clung to the trunk. They were still chanting. I only wanted some quiet. I remember liking quiet. That was the one enjoyable part of staying in the cellar. It was always silent, and all there was to hear was my own breathing, reminding me that I was alive. In those days, I feared death, though I had yet to realize it._

 _I grew tired of waiting for them to leave. I think that they were also getting tired of chanting, for some of them had stopped, instead, contemplating matters, and how to displace me. I did not wish them to reimburse though. I could still hear their raucous laughter, which seemed to me at the time, deafening._

 _I was concentrating quite strenuously on finding silence and piece of mind, when, to my astonishment, silence found me. I raised my head when I sensed the group of boys was no longer talking. They weren't, for that matter, making any sort of noise. They were silent. They simply wouldn't;_ couldn't, _make noise. I was still in the tree, and didn't understand what had happened. All the same, I could tell that each and every one of them apprehended without hesitation that I was at fault. I remember their eyes flickering up to where I sat in the tree. Their small faces changed so quickly, from mirthful glee, to be drawn with eminent fear. Then, without another glance, they fled, silently._

 _This caused much consternation and speculation in the children of the town, even after the effect of silence had worn off. Most of all, however, it germinated fear amongst the neighbors, which spread quickly, each mind being the anlage to exaggeration._

 _I boxed myself in, after that, and took the insurance to see that no one would excavate me from my home, as I called it. My mother enclosed me as well. She thought it was for the best. She wanted to keep me safe._

 _Later, I was to learn that I would never be safe._


	2. Reading

**AN: I love reviews everyone. They seriously make my day. If you have questions or objections, you can always ask about those too. Hope you enjoy.**

 _I taught myself to read and write at the young age of three. Reading has always constituted a large portion of my life, both in childhood and in adulthood. I relished in the knowledge that I could absorb with every turning of the page, the distinct scent of each individual book that I came to know and remember. I looked on books, as one might look on a dear friend, who had come to visit for a long philosophical discussion over a cup of tea. I remember the rudiments of spelling and grammar coming easily to me, as I quickly moved from short stories to novels, in only a matter of weeks._

 _My mother did not own any books, or possess any at her disposal, and we did not have the money to afford such luxuries. However, books always seemed to find their way into my hands. When I wanted them, the few people that did see me, on occasion, would give me books, without my even having to ask. Afterwards, they would foolishly ask where their book had gone, but I knew; if I reminded them that they had given it to me, they might ask for them back, having changed their mind. I learned to remain silent in these sorts of situations._

 _Once, my mother found me with a book. My mother was a stern woman, with a very strict set of rules to follow. Stealing was not permitted. Though I had not, in fact, stolen the book, as she presumed, I knew that there was no other reasonable explanation for my having it. For who would dare to give the damnable child a present? Many in the town thought I may be cursed. My mother had taken the book from me, spanked me for my "wrong doing", and afterwards, sold the book for money._

 _I kept things hidden after that, and learned to keep secrets. My mother would search the entire cellar, but would end with fruitless results, only finding my things if I wanted her to._

 _There was one occasion that I recall, where my mother did_ give _me a book. It was my sixth birthday at the time. She had made me a small cake that morning, and had also salvaged some left over biscuits from our last customer. The biscuits were slightly stale, but at the time, I didn't notice. It was the best thing I'd ever tasted._

 _Later that day, a visitor arrived. My mother opened the door. Her body tensed up, and her eyes narrowed. "What do you want?" She snapped briskly. For once, I could tell that my mother was afraid. I had never seen her show fear before, but I knew the feeling itself all too familiar._

 _Gertia Grindlewald was a very strong woman. I knew that she was stronger than most women, even as a child. She was stout, and well muscled, with a fiery spirit to match. Until this moment in time, she had been the strongest person I had known._

 _This man, however, was much stronger than she, by comparison. From the moment I glanced at him, no more than a shadow in the doorway; I was intrigued. He was not physically fit, as my mother was; in fact, the visitor was quite thin, without much build to him. Yet despite this, everything about this man radiated_ power _to me. Perhaps it was in the way of which he carried himself, with an air of authority. Perhaps it was in the way that he took in the brief scanning of the house, as if he were analyzing something only he could see. Perhaps it was because, although he had not so much glanced in my direction… yet… I felt that he noticed me, and noted my existence, unlike so many others that had failed to do so. For these reasons, and other unexplainable ones, I found myself drawn to him, like a moth to a lamp._

 _My mother turned, and she saw me watching. "To your room," she said suddenly, voice sharp._

 _I reluctantly obliged, only glancing over my shoulder as I went, so as to see the stranger's face, just once. The man was quite tall, I now realized. He had a long chiseled face, with dark hair, in an immaculate, wealthy looking trim. The eyes that matched were, if possible, darker. He had a straight nose, which, I realized, looked a bit like my own. His ears were also slightly pointed, almost elfish looking; like mine. I wondered if he could be a distant relative. An uncle, perhaps. My mother never spoke of her family, save for her older sister, Bathilda, though this was only on occasion. I was led to believe that there must have been a family feud, leading to her isolating herself from the rest of her siblings. I knew that she had had two brothers, though one had passed in recent years, just before I was born._

 _I overheard their conversation from the cellar stairs, listening at the trap door._

 _My mother repeated her question harshly, before adding angrily, "You know very well I'll have nothing to do with you." I heard a faint clang of metal, and I imagined that my mother had picked up a frying pan, to use as a bludgeon if need be. She could be quite aggressive at times._

 _The man had a low voice, and he laughed softly. "Is it so wrong for me to wish my son a Happy Birthday?" There was the sound of him setting something down on the table._

 _"You have no—" My mother never had the chance to finish her judgment however. Part way through her sentence, she was interrupted by a loud CRACK! Afterwards, her words abruptly died in her mouth, trailing off at 'right'._

 _I opened the hatch, looking out, to find my mother flushed and furious, standing by the empty doorway. The man was nowhere to been seen. My mother let out a long sigh through her nose. Although angry, I could tell that she was highly relieved. I looked to the table. On it, sat a thin, newly bound book, with variegated patterns splotching the golden cover, making it an interesting sight. My mother picked up the book and sighed again. As she started to turn in my direction, I silently closed the trap door once more, vanishing into the cellar, where I had supposedly been the entire time._

 _A few minutes later, my mother joined me in the cellar. "This is for you," she said, an edge of bitterness in her tone. With that, she handed me the book._

 _I pondered over that strange day and the strange man many times in my childhood after that. I did not forget his words either, or the fact that he claimed to be my father. I read the book to myself countless times to myself, attempting to interpret each and every story that it contained._

 _It was a book of children's stories, called_ The Tales of Beetle the Bard _. I remember particularly liking the story of_ The Fountain of Fair Fortune, _and_ Babbity's Cackling Stump. _At the time, these were the stories I could interpret the best. I memorized each story by heart, though; and, highly interested by such tales, I secretly hoped that I would one day see the strange man claiming to be my father again._


End file.
